Henry and Ribsy and Beezus

"Henry Huggins" is about curiosity and hunger.

Beverly Cleary--a librarian, in her thirties--noticed that (a) most kids' books were bad and (b) boys could generally tolerate a story about a dog, if nothing else.

"Henry Huggins"--Cleary's debut--concerns an ordinary boy who discovers a dog around the corner. Determined to raise this dog--inspired by the dog, in a vague way--Henry makes some arrangements. He will call his mom for permission. (This requires using a phone book as a stepping stool.) Henry will bring the dog home--in a box--on the bus. When the box breaks, Henry gets off, finds a shopping bag, and ties the dog in wrapping paper. ("This is just a parcel.")

When this, too, fails, Henry rides home in a police car. But: mission accomplished. The dog is now a pet.

There isn't anything especially remarkable about Henry, but you root for him; he has goals, and it's fun to watch a scrappy kid with goals. Exploring a fish obsession means staying home all summer with your jam jars; you've got to be sure that each guppy gets a pinch of food. Moving on from that obsession means doing a capitalist tap dance; you have to persuade your vendor to buy back what he has already sold.

People say, about young great talents: "She's like Athena, popping out of Zeus, already fully-formed." That's true for Beverly Cleary. The humor, the eye for detail, the gift for pacing: They're all present in her very first novel.

I'll keep looking at "Huggins" as Mrs. Cleary's important birthday approaches.....

P.S. Cleary says she set out to write about a girl, not a boy, but Henry's voice became insistent in her head. Other voices followed--scraps of ideas Cleary couldn't abandon. You see that in "Henry Huggins," when a girl called Beezus ("her sister Ramona couldn't say BEATRICE") makes her first appearance......

Comments

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...

Liars and Saints

Search This Blog